


Wine, Women and Song - A First Day Story

by Convenient_Coma



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble, Drinking, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Minor Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras, Minor Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, New Year's Day, Nostalgia, Old Friends, The Fate of Thom Rainier, The Hanged Man (Dragon Age), Viscount of Kirkwall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22074892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Convenient_Coma/pseuds/Convenient_Coma
Summary: Varric Tethras is tired of being the Viscount of Kirkwall.  What happens if he sneaks out to return to his old haunt at the Hanged Man?  What if he bumps into The Iron Bull and Thom Rainier there?  Fluff, nostalgia and smut ensue.
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Wine, Women and Song - A First Day Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CatC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatC/gifts).



> This is for the incomparable Catherine the Pretty Great. Happy Secret Santa.

Viscount Varric Tethras stood stiffly at the window of his study, looking out at the frosted rooftops of Hightown. His shoulders and neck ached from the competing strains of looking up at all the nobles he’d been schmoozing and keeping the circlet of his office from slipping off the back of his head. He sighed and tossed the circlet onto the desk where it wobbled loudly in the stillness until it settled. It had been a trying day. He had been up way too early for the sunrise First Day ceremony within the bare bones of the partly reconstructed Kirkwall cathedral. Divine Victoria had come for the laying of the founding stone of the new chantry two years ago and Varric had managed to squeeze in a romantic getaway for himself and Cassandra at a country estate of a discreet friend but he had not seen her since then. She would return to Kirkwall for the dedication of the chantry when it was finished but who knew how long that would take? He didn’t have a legitimate reason to visit the Divine in Val Royeaux so in the meantime, torrid letters would have to suffice.

After the open air chantry service, he performed his duty of bringing up the rear of the parade through the market throwing out sweets to Kirkwall’s children and ending at the harbor for the Grand Cleric’s blessing of the ships that had docked in the city for the holiday. Isabella had not returned to Kirkwall this year and Varric wondered briefly where she was and how whichever nearby coastline was faring under her pillaging. Merrill was gone, returned to the Dalish. Aveline was surely in the city but certainly at home with Donnick’s family and their little ones, four gingers, all under the age of five.

“Viscount? My lord, are you still here?”

Varric turned to see Seneschal Bran peeking his officious head into his office. “Yeah, I’m still here.” Killjoy, he added to himself. He only broke out that nickname when the seneschal was being particularly punctilious. “Why don’t you head home and...do whatever it is you do when you’re not here.”

Bran stepped into the room and nodded smartly. “Yes, my lord. The servants have been dismissed for the day and won’t return until morning. The hall is cleared, and the guards have been posted for the evening. You’ve nothing on your schedule until noon tomorrow when you have a luncheon meeting with the Starkhaven delegation. They were most annoyed that you couldn’t find time today.”

“Annoyed is how I like delegations from Starkhaven,” he grumbled. Prince Sebastian was a thorn in his side, the white-armored, sanctimonious prick constantly bothering him with his highness’s opinion of how Kirkwall should be offering better trade terms to Starkhaven just because the two of them used to run with Hawke. Favored trade status for Starkhaven, Varric mused, Andraste my ass.

“I set the final draft of the state of the city speech on your desk. It would be good if you would read it. We don’t want a repeat of last year. And the letters from Markham and Ansburg are both there for your perusal as well.” Bran brushed his hands together as if ridding himself of the rest of his responsibilities like so many crumbs. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No. Go on home.”

“Thank you, my lord. Please lock up the Viscount’s Crown before you turn in,” he pleaded in a pained voice. ”Goodnight, my lord.”

Varric nodded irritably and made a shooing gesture with his hand until the seneschal left, closing the door quietly behind him. Varric turned to the window again, snowflakes drifting down in the failing light of the evening. “Snow in Kirkwall, never thought I’d see the day.”

Candlelight shown from the windows in Hightown, warm and welcoming everyone home for the holiday. Varric suddenly felt very alone. His parents were gone, Bartrand was gone, his lady love far away and his friends all absent or otherwise unavailable. Magister Dorian Pavus had stopped into the city a fortnight ago, meeting his paramour at the Comte Trevelyan’s hightown estate but the two of them had immediately departed for Ostwick the following day so there would be no repeat of last year’s now infamous First Day feast where the two of them had worn matching outfits and scandalized all of Kirkwall’s nobility. Dorian had at least brought news that the fight against Solas, or Fen’Harel as they now knew, was progressing but all of those who Solas knew well were still being asked to stay at arm’s length. That still chafed but Varric knew it was probably for the best. He wasn’t prone to fits of rage but if he took one look at the lying, pharisaical elf he might cock Bianca and start shooting indiscrimintely.

Varric closed the curtains against the night and sighed as he looked at his desk. He left the circlet laying where he’d flung it, feeling a puerile satisfaction at the idea of Bran shaking his head in exasperation when he came across it. He left his office, stretching his neck, its satisfying crunch crackling in the stillness of the main hall as he walked down the stairs. He heard voices coming from the guard room. There was a small contingent of guards on duty, likely the youngest soldiers with the least seniority, wet behind the ears men with no wives or families, perhaps overseen by a single grizzled veteran, all alone in the world at the end of his career, his duty all that he had left, his other options in life having passed him by. Varric sighed at himself. He felt pathetically maudlin, crafting stories in his head for all the city guards now.

He avoided the guards’ room and made his way to the Viscount’s Residence behind the throne room. One of the servants had prepared his bedchamber, stoking the fire in the large marble fireplace, turning down the covers and setting out his nightshirt. The carafe by the bedside was sadly filled only with water and he swirled a glass of it in disappointment. He sat in one of the large leather back chairs near the fire and considered. He was tired but not sleepy, hungry, but only out of boredom and generally unsettled and irritable. His clothing was too fine, the chair too soft, everything around him too comfortable. Suddenly, it occurred to him. He needed to go somewhere he could be uncomfortable. He needed to go to the Hanged Man.

He was moved by a sudden certainty; yes, he’d feel more himself there than he’d felt in years. He tore off his fine doublet and dug out his old rough red coat from where he kept it hidden in the bottom of the wardrobe and threw it on. He pulled his hair back into his small ratty ponytail and then turned to the cabinet on the wall. He opened the lacquered doors reverently, Bianca’s glossy finish glinting inside in the light of the fire.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Varric murmured, pulling her from her hiding place and cradling her gently in his hands. “It’s been too long.” He felt the reassuring weight of the crossbow and a deep ache of familiarity settled into his fingers.

He was out of the residence and in the dark alleys of Kirkwall before he could ask himself if going to his old stomping grounds was a good idea. His worn boots were silent on the cobbles. He felt his body relax into the rhythm of the streets, the sneaking gait coming back to him, feeling on guard and alive like he hadn’t since...well, since he couldn’t remember when.

When he reached the small square in front of the Hanged Man, he stood in the shadows across the street, looking at the building with its dingy facade and spikes on the windowsills. He looked about, and seeing no one, hustled across the square and inside. His nose was immediately assaulted with the stench of stale ale, sawdust on the floor, cheap perfume of the barmaids and the vat of simmering mystery meat stew behind the bar. He took in a deep breath of the air. Ah, I’ve missed his place, he thought.

“Varric? Is that you?”

Varric looked sharply towards the bar, seeing a human man standing there with a foaming tankard of ale in each hand.

“Hero?” Varric shook his head. Thom Rainier’s beard was trimmed, shorter along his jaw and shot with grey as was the hair on his head, tied back at the base of his neck. “I hardly recognized you. Shit, you got old.”

The man laughed dryly and nodded back at him. “Not just me.”

“Yeah, we all got old,” said a deep voice behind Varric.

The dwarf turned to look at the voice behind his shoulder and saw Iron Bull sitting at the table in the corner, his back to the wall. Bull was almost the same, huge and gray skinned, his one wise eye perhaps more crinkled by his grin, but his horns still just as broad and proud.

“What are you two doing here?” Varric asked incredulously. “You’re about the last people I’d expect to see in this dive.”

“I’m on my way with the Chargers to Cumberland from Highever. We’d hopped on a trading vessel that’s headed back to Ferelden, so we camped outside the city- old abandoned Dalish camp from the look of it, out by Sundermount. Just a place to wait for a couple of days until the next ship to Cumberland for another job.” Bull took a deep draught from the tankard Thom pressed towards him. “And lo and behold, who turns up but this asshole.” He shook his head with exaggerated exasperation. “I still can’t get him to join my crew.”

Thom shook his head and returned to their table, straddling a stool, and gesturing for Varric to sit across from Bull. “I’ve been traveling along the coastal villages, doing what good I can. But when I bumped into the Chargers near here...well, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to do the traditional family visit for First Day.”

“You have family in Kirkwall?” Varric asked, surprised.

Thom shook his head and smiled at him. “Yeah, you.”

Varric smirked at the man. “I’m touched. But then why didn’t you come to the keep? I could have put you up in style.” 

“Oh, sure, a Qunari merc and a Markham ruffian show up at the Viscount’s Keep and say they’re old friends of the man in charge.” Thom shook his head. “I’d throw me out on my ass if I were them.”

“Point taken,” Varric said. He grinned broadly at the two men, shaking his head at the time that had gone by and wondering if he looked as worn as his two old friends. “How long has it been?”

Bull sighed. “Six years, give or take.”

Thom nodded in agreement. “Six years since that crazy mage dragged the three of us hither and yon around Thedas.”

“Good times,” Bull said and raised his glass.

“Wait, I don’t have a drink,” Varric complained. “Rosie, over here!”

The barmaid came over to the table, snapping her rag at Varric. “Rosie retired three years ago, m’lord. But for a sovereign, you can still call me Rosie.”

Bull flicked a gold coin from his thumb at the woman, grinning over his glass, his eyes noting an ample bosom and broad hips and just a touch of red in the waves of her chestnut brown hair that was tied up at the nape of her neck. “You look pretty rosy to me.”

The woman smiled indulgently at Bull as she deftly caught the coin in midair, then tucked it into her impressive cleavage. “I don’t do Qunari, if you take my meaning.” She straightened and turned to Varric. “What’ll it be, m’lord?”

Varric winced and held up a hand. “Don’t call me that. Just bring me a tankard of Ansburg bitter draught.” He shrugged at Bull and Thom. “Matches my mood.”

“And what about you, love?” The barmaid let her hand stray to Thom’s shoulder. “Can I get you...anything?”

Thom looked at her hand and his eyes followed her bare arm up to the saucy smile and arched brow as she looked down at him before he cocked his head at her. “I know you, don’t I?”

“I suppose, Serah,” she said, resting a hand on a hip while she twirled her rag. “Stoneham village, on the coast a few months back. You got rid of those bandits who were stealing my Da’s chickens.”

“Ah, I remember, now. And how is your father?”

“Next time I’m back in Stoneham I’ll ask him. I left soon after to come make my fortune in Kirkwall. Not all of us coastal girls are meant to be fishermen’s wives.”

Thom tapped his mug on the table. “Well, I’ll take another ale in a bit.”

“Just let me know when, serah,” she drawled and bent over close to his ear, her voice a lascivious whisper. “Or if you want anything else.” And with that she turned and sashayed back to the bar.

Bull raised an eyebrow. “She seems really grateful.”

Thom made a face. “I try not to take advantage.”

“Try?” Varric laughed. “So, you don’t always succeed?”

“I succeed just fine.” Thom took a drink and shook his head. “So now you know what I’ve been doing, traveling the coast, rescuing chickens. What about you Bull?”

Bull launched into a long story about being the hired muscle for the Teryn of Highever to protect him and his offspring from an assassination attempt by distant relatives of a rival family. The Teryn and his family had paid well and there had been several weeks of hospitality and comfort in the Teryn’s household as well as a promise of future work if he was ever in the market for mercenaries again after the Chargers had successfully eliminated the bad actors. Varric followed with stories of indiscreet behavior by Kirkwall nobles and the trials of his office, unburdening himself as he didn’t even do in letters to Cassandra. With each tale and each additional tankard, his cares seemed to lighten until he almost felt himself. Two additional barmaids appeared, who apparently had no such quibbles about Qunari as the first, for before long, Bull had one maid on each knee. A bottle of Rialto red made its way onto the table and then cards, and then more wine and then stories from Thom about visiting the prisons of Hunter Fell, but the girls wanted only laughter and light and forbid him from telling any more about his travels. Bull lightened the mood with a bellowed song he learned about a one-legged prostitute from Minrathous. More ale was drunk. The candles burnt low and the tavern emptied, and the remaining patrons fell asleep in their cups. The three friends were loath for their night to end.

Varric stood from his chair. “Be right back,” he slurred and staggered to the bar, slapping coins on the counter before the bartender. “Hey, Corff, we need rooms for us three,” he said, gesturing to himself, Thom and Bull.

“I’ve got your old rooms, if you like,” the bartender said. “Still quite posh since you left all your furniture.” Varric glowered disapprovingly. “You never came back for it! What was I to do?” Corff asked, holding his hands up in innocence. He handed over the key as he scooped up the coins into his hand. “All yours til midday.”

Varric almost stumbled back the table with the key, brandishing it before him. “I have procured us lodgings,” he announced with mock seriousness and both of the tavern girls hanging on Bull giggled.

One sprang up and snatched the key, making for the stairs up the rooms. “Catch me if you can, big man!” she called. Bull growled enthusiastically and hefted the other girl over his shoulder, racing up the steps.

Varric shook his head and clapped Thom on the shoulder. “Ready for some sleep?”

“Aye, that I am.” Thom stood, stretching from sitting at the table for so long. He glanced back to the bar, seeing the woman from Stoneham leaning on one elbow on the counter, watching him with her appraising eyes. He turned and gave a respectful bow of his head before following Varric up the stairs, fighting hard to not look back again.

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

Thom Rainier laid on his back in bed, staring up into the dark, wide awake. It was a good bed, better than he’d had in months, a deep mattress stuffed with clean smelling straw and cotton, not at all lumpy and not too soft. He had tossed and turned regardless for at least an hour, listening to Varric’s heavy snoring on the other side of the heavy curtain dividing the room. The dwarf talked in his sleep, a habit he remembered from sharing a tent with him while traipsing around Ferelden and Orlais with the Inquisitor, though the fact that he now he murmured “Cassandra” more often than “Bianca” was something of a surprise. But as Varric had quieted, the trio in the other room was apparently just getting started, the wall and door between them doing little to muffle Bull and the girls’ bawdy exertions. Thom sighed and shifted the blankets over him, his hand drifting downward, remembering the breasts of the grateful barmaid, thinking a quick tug might help him fall asleep.

There was a soft knock on the chamber door, so soft that at first Thom didn’t hear it over a particularly fervent moan from the other side of the wall. Thom stilled in the darkness and listened. The knock came again and this time he flung the blanket back and grabbed his dagger from under his pillow, crossing silently on bare feet to the door in nothing but his breeches.

“Who’s there?” he asked, pitching his voice low and threatening.

“It’s Leira, serah,” came a woman’s voice. “The woman from Stoneham.”

Thom cracked the door ajar, peering out into the hallway, keeping his dagger at the ready. She stood in the hall, barefoot on the wooden floor, a blanket wrapped around her, a small lantern lit in her hand. Her face was pretty in the golden light, her eyes big and dark. She had a long aquiline nose over full lips that were slightly parted, a small hopeful smile on her face. “Can I come in?”

Thom hesitated, not sure of her purpose before shaking his head at himself. What harm could she do? “Of course,” he said softly, opening the door further, holding the dagger behind him.

She slipped inside, closing the door behind her, glancing towards the curtained half of the room as Varric murmured something garbled in his sleep. She stood studying Thom. Her eyes slid down his bare chest and along his arm to the dagger in his hand, the corner of her mouth hitched up in a small smile. “I’m harmless,” she said. “You won’t need that.”

Thom set the dagger on the night table, still within reach and stood at the edge of the bed, regarding her. “And what do I need?”

She took a slow step closer to him. “My gratitude. You left Stoneham before I had a chance to thank you properly.”

Thom took a slow breath as the blanket slipped, showing a bare shoulder in the lantern light. He licked his lips involuntarily. “You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. I think you want me to, too.” She took another step closer and let the blanket fall away. She stood there looking back at him, naked and unashamed, her skin burnished by the lantern light, all swelling breasts and generous hips. Thom swallowed hard and looked away.

Her nostrils flared and she raised her chin defensively. “Is there something wrong with taking a little pleasure in this world where you can find it?”

“No.” His voice was hoarse even to his own ears. His eyes flashed back to her body, drinking in her skin, and coming to rest on her face. “No,” he repeated, looking into her eyes.

“Then come over here and put your hands on me, Thom Rainier. I’m cold.”

Thom crossed the floor towards her, not looking away from her eyes. When he was close, he took the lantern from her hand and set in on the bedside table. He turned back to her, the flame making her face flicker. He reached out to caress her shoulder, fingers sliding over her skin down her arm to her elbow and then skipping to her hip, just below her waist. He leaned forward and nuzzled his nose against her cheek. She sighed softly and leaned her head away, offering her neck to his mouth. He kissed her neck, just below her ear, his other hand coming up to entwine in her hair, pulling at the pins until its dense, heavy length fell down her back. Her fingers traced his sides, palms sliding over his muscles, making his breath come short, before drifting lower to the laces of his breeches, slowly tugging at the leather ties, freeing him, her hand sure and eager as she stroked him.

Only then did he cover her mouth with his. Her tongue was warm. He could taste the sharp tang of strong drink on her lips, the swig of liquid courage she’d taken before coming to his room, before undressing and wrapping her blanket around her nakedness. That image comforted him, let him know that she wasn’t as bold and blousy as she tried to appear, that there was a need and a fear in her, just as strong as his own.

She pushed him back toward the bed, pulling his breeches down and off his legs. Thom settled on the bed, leaning back against the wall, and pulled her into his lap, letting her straddle him. He stroked her sides, her breasts, then raising up to bite her neck again, nibbling along her collar bone. He pulled her closer, arching her breasts against his mouth, his tongue teasing her hardened nipples. She threw her head back wantonly, her hands gripping hard against his shoulders as she grit her teeth against the low moan that escaped her throat. She leaned forward to kiss him again, her fingers dragging through his beard as she bit his lower lip. Thom’s hands slid down to stroke her legs astride him, his thumbs pressing into the flesh of her thighs, making her quiver. She reached down to hold his hardened length in her hand and rolled her hips against him, sliding up and down along him before raising herself, positioning him at her entrance. She closed her eyes and slid down on him, sheathing him deep inside her. Thom gasped and gripped her hips, closing his eyes at her slippery warmth. She started slow, grinding her rhythm against him, her hands sliding over his belly and chest, touching him everywhere, greedy for the feel of his skin. Thom wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face in her bosom licking and nibbling her soft flesh as she rode him, faster now, gasping as her hips snapped against his.

Thom pushed her to the side, rolling her on her back, not breaking the connection between them, spreading his thighs between hers, taking over their movements, pressing deep and deeper still. He rested his forehead against hers, holding his weight on his hands and kissed her again.

She begged him, murmuring his name, panting against his open mouth, then straining against him, a high, almost indecent whine of need trapped behind her closed lips as she wrapped her legs and arms around him. Thom thrust harder, pushing his raw, rough hunger into her body, drowning the months and years of isolation and duty in the here and now, immersing himself in her warm, wet willingness with no other thought than this moment, this pleasure, this indulgence. His release almost took him by surprise, pulling out of her to spill his seed against her belly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his breath coming hard as he rested against her.

Her eyes were large and dark in the dim glow of the lantern and she grinned wickedly at him. “You don’t need to apologize unless you’re done.”

“And what would you have of me?” he whispered against her neck, baring his teeth against her skin.

She pursed her lips in mock consideration. “You’re a Marcher with an Orlesian surname...” she mused. “Do you have an Orlesian tongue to match?”

He chuckled, low and dirty against her neck as his mouth began tracing its way down her chest, heading lower still. “Of that, I’ll let you be the judge.”

And then there was no further need to talk. Afterwards, Thom lay on his side, looking at her body in the lamplight, her sleeping form beside him on her stomach, her face turned away into the pillow, her rich brown hair spilling over the edge of the bed. He ran his fingers along her spine thinking of other women, other missed opportunities. What would it be like to settle in Kirkwall, to stay put, to maybe open a shop, ply his trade as a craftsman, to stay in one place for once? Of course, she was not asking that of him and it was naive to pretend otherwise. In the morning he would be off again. There were a hundred villages like Stoneham between Kirkwall and Ostwick, Ostwick and Hercinia, Hercinia and Wycome. He could travel forever along the coast righting wrongs and helping the poor, the sick, doing his penance for all his past mistakes. He’d never been to Antiva. It seemed as good a place as any to head next. And so it was he fell asleep thinking of Antivan vineyards and the jeweled waterways of Rialto, picturing them as how he had always imagined. He drifted off, his hand resting gently on the small of Leira’s back.

“Hey, wake up, Hero.”

Thom blinked awake, rubbing at his face, immediately noticing that his bed was empty but for him. Sunlight was streaming through the gaps in the shutters over the window. The curtain dividing the room had been tied back against the wall. Varric was standing at the foot of his bed, adjusting his coat and pulling his hair back, getting ready to leave.

“I have to get back to the keep. Should I tell the guards to look for you later? You could stay for a while.” Varric shrugged. “Keep me company while I deal with all these noble assholes.”

Thom propped himself up on one elbow and shook his head. “The Chargers’ ship leaves for Cumberland today. And I’m going to Antiva.”

Varric nodded somberly and stood with his hands on his hips. “Well, if you ever come this way again, stop by. Say goodbye to Bull for me. From the sound of things last night, he may not be up for a while. It was good to see you, Thom.”

“It was good to see you too, Varric.”

Varric looked about the room as if looking for an excuse to stay a bit longer before giving up and turning towards the door. He hefted Bianca over his shoulder and glanced down at Thom’s breeches bunched up on the floor. He chuckled and looked at Thom as he headed out the door.

“Those must have been some chickens.”


End file.
